The world didn't stop when I broke.
That's something I keep coming back to.
Because somehow, despite everything— despite the nights I couldn't breathe, the mornings I didn't want to get up— the sun kept rising. People kept moving. Laughter still echoed in places I used to stand. Songs kept playing in cafés I don't go to anymore. And time… time just kept going like I hadn't fallen behind.
It's a strange thing, really. To realize that the world doesn't wait for you to feel okay again. That while you're stuck between aching and pretending, everything around you continues like nothing happened.
I've been going through the motions lately.
Waking up, brushing teeth, replying to texts, showing up to whatever I'm supposed to show up to. I eat, sometimes on time. I shower, even when I don't feel like facing myself in the mirror. I smile when someone cracks a joke I barely heard. I talk, I laugh, I exist.
And yet… I don't feel present in any of it.
It's like I'm walking through a life that technically belongs to me, but I'm only renting space in it. Like I'm watching myself in third person. Someone else is doing all the moving, all the talking, while the real me just floats slightly outside of it all— observing, detached.
I've stopped checking your profile every day.
That realization came as a surprise. One evening, I caught myself scrolling through other things, distracted, not even searching for your name— and it hit me. Like a quiet betrayal. Like I'd looked away for too long and something had shifted in the background without permission.
It didn't feel like healing. Not really.
It felt like distraction and forgetting.
And forgetting — especially when it's unintentional — hurts in ways healing never does.
Some nights, the pain still pulls me under. Softly, without reason. I'll be lying in bed, scrolling through nothing, and suddenly I'm in pieces again. No trigger. No dramatic memory. Just this wave of sadness crashing through me before I even know what it's about.
I cry, sometimes without knowing why. I guess that's how grief behaves when it's been stretched too long— it becomes shapeless. Heavy in the middle, but with no clear edge to hold or cut off. Just constant.
People think I'm doing better now.
They say things like "you look calmer these days." I nod. I say thank you. I let them believe it.
Because in some ways, they're not wrong. I don't ache the same way anymore. At least not everyday. I don't flinch every time I hear your name. I don't sit up at 3AM wondering if I should send a message just to feel real again. I've even stopped writing to you every night.
But that doesn't mean I'm okay.
It just means I've learned how to carry it better. Quietly. Without spilling it all over the floor.
There's this weird guilt that follows the lightness, too. Like every good day is me cheating on the pain. Like I'm not allowed to smile if I'm still supposed to be mourning something I haven't fully let go of.
Is that moving on? Or is that just surviving?
Because if I'm being honest, some days still bring me to my knees. Some nights still find me curled into myself, missing a voice that used to anchor me. Some songs still feel like knives, and some memories still stop me mid-step.
But in between those moments — there are hours I forget to miss you.
And that… that's the scariest part.
Not the pain.
But the absence of it.
Because if it doesn't hurt, does it mean you're fading?
And if you fade, does that mean I'm healing?
Or am I just learning to live around a hollow space?
I don't know what this is anymore.
It's not longing. Not always. And it's not peace either. It's not even hope. It's something quieter. Something numb. Something in between.
The world is moving again. Faster than I am. And I'm trying to catch up. Some days I almost do. Other days, I fall behind.
But either way… I walk.
Even if I still feel like a ghost in my own story.
Even if your absence still lingers like fog in the corners of my mind.
Even if the mirror shows me a version of myself I'm still learning to recognize.
I'm walking.
I'm showing up.
I'm still here.
And maybe that's enough — for now.